Lost in Translation: Part 2 — What Happens When Hebrew Becomes Greek?
What the Greek Text May Not Be Telling You
Scripture First
The Hebrew Scriptures were written in Hebrew.
This may seem obvious, but it matters more than we often consider. Hebrew is not simply a different set of sounds for the same ideas. It is a different way of thinking. A different way of seeing the world. A different set of assumptions about God, humanity, time, and covenant.
When those Scriptures were translated into Greek — beginning in the 3rd century BC — something shifted. Not because the translators were unfaithful. Not because Greek is an inferior language. But because every language carries a worldview. And when you pour Hebrew thought into Greek containers, some things fit differently. Some things spill. Some things get reshaped by the container itself.
The question we are tracing in this piece: What happened when the Scriptures went Greek? What shifted? And what, if anything, was lost?
The Septuagint: A Brief History
In the 3rd century BC, a large Jewish community lived in Alexandria, Egypt. These were descendants of those who had been scattered during the Babylonian exile and its aftermath. Many of them no longer spoke Hebrew fluently. Greek had become the common language of the Eastern Mediterranean world following Alexander the Great’s conquests.
According to tradition — recorded in a document called the Letter of Aristeas — the Egyptian king Ptolemy II commissioned a Greek translation of the Jewish Torah for the Library of Alexandria. Seventy-two Jewish scholars (six from each of the twelve tribes) were brought to Alexandria to produce the translation. The result came to be called the Septuagint, from the Latin word for “seventy” — the number was rounded, or perhaps later tradition connected the translators to the seventy elders of Israel (Exodus 24:1).
Whether the details of this tradition are historical or legendary, the Septuagint itself is real. It became the Bible of Greek-speaking Jews throughout the ancient world. And when the early followers of Yeshua — many of whom were Greek-speaking — quoted Scripture, they often quoted the Septuagint.
Much of the New Testament’s quotations of the Hebrew Scriptures follow the Septuagint rather than the Hebrew text. This means the Septuagint shaped how the first generations of believers understood the Scriptures.
But Yeshua’s Primary Language Wasn’t Greek
Here is something worth pausing on: Yeshua’s primary spoken language was almost certainly Aramaic — a sister language to Hebrew that had become the common tongue of Judea by the 1st century. He likely also used Hebrew in religious contexts and may have known some Greek. But when He taught the crowds, when He spoke to His disciples, when He cried out from the cross — the evidence suggests He was usually speaking Aramaic.
The Gospels preserve some of His actual Aramaic words:
Talitha koum — “Little girl, arise” (Mark 5:41)
Ephphatha — “Be opened” (Mark 7:34)
Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani — “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34)
Abba — “Father” (Mark 14:36)
The fact that these Aramaic phrases were preserved — and then explained for Greek-speaking readers — tells us something important: much of what Yeshua said was translated. The Gospel writers rendered His speech into Greek for their audiences.
This means that when we read the words of Yeshua in our English Bibles, we are often reading:
An English translation
Of a Greek text
That is itself a rendering of Aramaic speech
Rooted in Hebrew thought and Scripture
We are not suggesting this makes the text unreliable. But we are asking: What might have shifted along the way?
What the Aramaic Might Reveal
Later Syriac tradition — including the Peshitta, an Aramaic version of the New Testament — along with our knowledge of Hebrew idioms and Aramaic vocabulary, can sometimes suggest Semitic resonances behind the Greek text. This does not give us direct access to Yeshua’s exact original wording. But it can open possibilities worth considering.
The camel and the needle — or is it a rope?
In Matthew 19:24, Yeshua says it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God. In Greek, the word is kamelos (κάμηλος) — camel. That is the standard reading, and the manuscript evidence supports it.
Some interpreters have suggested a Semitic ambiguity: in Aramaic, the word for “camel” (gamla) is spelled similarly to the word for a thick rope or cable. Was there originally a wordplay that the Greek resolved one way?
We cannot know for certain. The Greek text reads “camel,” and that remains the standard reading. But if there was an underlying ambiguity — if the rope image was part of what Yeshua intended — it opens an interesting possibility.
A thick cable cannot pass through a needle’s eye. But if you unwind it — strand by strand, thread by thread — eventually each thread can pass through. It takes time. It requires the rope to stop being a rope in its bound-up form.
Perhaps Yeshua was saying: the rich man doesn’t have to stop existing — but his relationship to wealth has to be unwound. The grip has to loosen. The strands have to separate. And this unwinding isn’t quick or easy. It may feel like losing everything.
This also fits what Yeshua says immediately after: “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26). The unwinding isn’t something you do to yourself by willpower. It’s something that happens as you encounter Him and follow.
This is speculation, not certainty. But it is worth asking: What if there was a layer we’re missing?
Straining out a gnat, swallowing a camel
In Matthew 23:24, Yeshua criticizes the Pharisees: “You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.”
Some scholars have noted that in Aramaic, “gnat” (galma) and “camel” (gamla) sound similar — almost a rhyme. If Yeshua originally spoke this in Aramaic, there may have been a wordplay that landed with force in the original language. The Greek preserves the contrast but would lose the sound. This is a reconstruction, not a certainty — but it suggests Yeshua may have been doing something clever with language that we can no longer fully hear.
The good eye and the bad eye
In Matthew 6:22-23, Yeshua says: “The eye is the lamp of the body. So if your eye is good, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.”
In Greek, the words are haplous (single, simple, good) and poneros (evil, bad). This has led to various interpretations about spiritual perception or single-mindedness.
But in Hebrew and Aramaic, “good eye” (ayin tovah) and “bad eye” (ayin ra’ah) are idioms. A “good eye” means generosity. A “bad eye” means stinginess. This is well attested in Jewish literature.
If Yeshua was using these idioms — and given the immediate context about money and serving two masters — He may have been talking about generosity and greed, not vision or simplicity. The Greek captures the words but may miss the idiom.
You are Peter, and on this rock
In Matthew 16:18, Yeshua says to Simon: “You are Peter (Petros), and on this rock (petra) I will build my community.”
In Greek, Petros (masculine) and petra (feminine) are related but not identical words. This has generated centuries of debate about whether Yeshua was referring to Peter himself or to something else (Peter’s confession, perhaps).
Many interpreters argue that an Aramaic original may have used the same underlying word — Kepha — in both places. “You are Kepha, and on this kepha I will build my community.” If so, that could lessen the distinction some readers perceive in the Greek.
We are not here to settle these questions. But we are asking: What might we be missing when we read only the Greek — or only an English translation of the Greek? What wordplay, what idioms, what layers of meaning might have shifted when Aramaic speech was rendered into Greek text?
Two Different Worlds
To understand what might have shifted, we need to understand how Hebrew and Greek can approach fundamental concepts differently.
Hebrew: Often Concrete, Active, Relational
Hebrew often expresses ideas through embodied and relational imagery. This is not to say Hebrew cannot express abstraction — it can. But its characteristic mode tends toward the concrete.
Consider the Hebrew word for “anger” — aph (אַף). It literally means “nose” or “nostrils.” Why? Because when someone is angry, their nostrils flare. Hebrew often doesn’t abstract the emotion away from the body. It sees the whole person — body, breath, emotion — as one.
Or consider the Hebrew word for “glory” — kavod (כָּבוֹד). It comes from a root meaning “heavy” or “weighty.” Glory is not merely an abstract quality. It is the weight of someone’s presence. When YHWH’s glory fills the temple, it is so heavy the priests cannot stand.
Hebrew verbs are built on action. The question tends to be not “what is this?” but “what does this do?” Even existence is expressed through action — YHWH reveals Himself as “I AM” (ehyeh), which is a verb, not a static noun.
And Hebrew thought is deeply relational. The covenant between YHWH and Israel is not a contract or a set of propositions. It is a relationship — with obligations, history, memory, and future hope woven together.
Greek: Often Abstract, Categorical, Philosophical
Hellenistic Greek-speaking culture included philosophical traditions that often asked different kinds of questions than biblical Hebrew texts typically foregrounded. That difference in intellectual setting could shape how key words were heard.
Where Hebrew often asks “what does this do?”, Greek philosophical traditions more readily asked “what is this in its essence?” Plato and Aristotle sought to identify the unchanging essence (ousia) behind changing appearances.
Where Hebrew tends to see the person as a unified whole — body, breath, soul integrated — certain Greek philosophical schools divided the person into parts. Plato taught that the soul (psyche) is immortal and trapped in the body (soma), which is temporary and inferior. Death, in this view, liberates the soul from its bodily prison.
Where Hebrew speaks of covenant faithfulness demonstrated in action, Greek philosophical traditions often spoke of virtue (arete) as an internal quality to be cultivated through reason.
These are generalizations, of course. Not all Greek thought is the same, and Koine Greek as used in the Septuagint and New Testament is not the same thing as Plato. But the dominant philosophical currents of the Hellenistic world — the world into which the Scriptures were translated — carried these tendencies, and they could shape how readers heard the text.
What Shifted in Translation
When the Septuagint translators rendered Hebrew into Greek, they had to make choices. Some of those choices carried the Hebrew meaning well. Others may have introduced subtle shifts that would compound over time.
Example 1: Nephesh → Psyche
The Hebrew word nephesh (נֶפֶשׁ) is often translated “soul.” But in Hebrew, nephesh often means the whole living being — the breathing creature, the self, the life.
In Genesis 2:7, YHWH forms Adam from the dust and breathes into his nostrils the breath of life, and Adam becomes a “living nephesh.” He does not receive a nephesh; he becomes one. The soul is not something you have. It is what you are — an embodied, breathing, living whole.
The Septuagint often renders nephesh with psyche (ψυχή). In biblical Greek, psyche can still mean “life,” “self,” or “person” — it does not always carry a full Platonic freight. But it could carry the Platonic connotation of an immortal soul distinct from the body, especially for readers shaped by Greek philosophy.
The shift from nephesh to psyche created room for later readers in a Greek intellectual world to hear the term differently, even though biblical Greek itself often still uses psyche in more concrete ways. Over time, as Greek-speaking Christians read their Bibles, more dualistic understandings of the soul could overlay the Hebrew understanding.
We will explore this more fully in a later piece. But the seed may have been planted here, in translation.
Example 2: Emunah → Pistis
The Hebrew word emunah (אֱמוּנָה) is often translated “faith.” But emunah emphasizes firmness, steadfastness, faithfulness. It is demonstrated in action, not merely held in the mind.
When Abraham believed YHWH and it was credited to him as righteousness (Genesis 15:6), the word is aman — the verbal root of emunah. Abraham’s faith was not merely intellectual assent to a proposition. It was trust expressed in obedience. He left Ur. He followed. He waited. He acted.
The Septuagint translated emunah and its related forms with pistis (πίστις) and pisteuo (πιστεύω). In Greek, pistis can mean trust, faith, faithfulness, fidelity, and reliability — it is not simply “mere belief,” and many scholars argue it often carries relational and loyalty language.
But over centuries, as Christianity developed in a Greek-speaking world, later theological traditions sometimes narrowed “faith” to mean “believing the right things” — intellectual assent to doctrines. The active, covenantal faithfulness of emunah could fade into the background. The problem is not that Greek pistis necessarily turned covenant faithfulness into mental assent. The problem is that later readings sometimes emphasized one dimension over others.
Example 3: Tzedek → Dikaiosyne
The Hebrew word tzedek (צֶדֶק) is often translated “righteousness.” But tzedek emphasizes right relationship, justice, things being as they should be.
When the prophets call for tzedek, they are calling for justice in the courts, care for the widow and orphan, honesty in business, and faithfulness in covenant. Tzedek is active. It is something you do.
“Let justice [mishpat] roll down like waters, and righteousness [tzedakah] like an ever-flowing stream.” — Amos 5:24 (TLV)
The Septuagint translated tzedek as dikaiosyne (δικαιοσύνη). In Greek, dikaiosyne can also mean justice and righteousness — it is not simply abstract legal standing. But in certain legal and philosophical contexts, it could emphasize having the right standing — being in the right, being declared just.
When Paul writes about justification (dikaiosis) and righteousness (dikaiosyne), he is drawing on this Greek vocabulary. But is he using it in the Hebrew sense of tzedek — active, relational, covenantal? Or have later theological traditions emphasized legal categories more heavily than Paul himself intended?
This question has divided theologians for centuries. But it begins here, in translation — and in how later readers heard the Greek.
Example 4: Olam → Aion
The Hebrew word olam (עוֹלָם) refers to a long duration of time — an age, an era, time beyond memory or time stretching into the future. It does not necessarily mean “eternal” in the sense of timeless or infinite.
When Scripture speaks of chayei olam — “life of the age” — it often refers to life in the age to come, the Kingdom age, the restoration of all things. It is a quality of life as much as a duration.
The Septuagint translated olam as aion (αἰών), which could mean “age” or “era.” But in later Greek usage, aionios (the adjective form) came to mean “eternal” in the sense of unending or timeless.
What might Yeshua have actually said? The Peshitta — the Aramaic New Testament — uses chaye d’l’alma (ܚܰܝܶܐ ܕ݁ܰܠܥܳܠܰܡ): “life of the age.” The Aramaic word alma (ܥܠܡܐ) has the same semantic range as Hebrew olam — it can mean “age,” “world,” or “eternity.” It is not locked into the Greek philosophical sense of timeless infinity.
So when Yeshua speaks of zoe aionios — typically translated “eternal life” — is He speaking only of endless duration? Or is He also speaking of the life of the coming age, breaking into the present?
In John 17:3, Yeshua defines it:
“This is eternal life [zoe aionios]: that they may know You, the only true God, and Yeshua the Messiah, whom You have sent.” — John 17:3 (TLV)
“Eternal life” in the New Testament is not merely endless duration; it is also the life of the age to come, known relationally in fellowship with God. Yeshua may have said something like chaye d’l’alma — life of the age — and then defined it as knowing the Father and the one He sent. John 17:3 certainly supports a relational understanding. It does not cancel duration, but it deepens it.
If we read aionios only through a Greek lens of timelessness rather than also through a Hebrew/Aramaic lens of “the age to come,” we may miss part of what Yeshua meant.
Example 5: Torah → Nomos
The Hebrew word Torah (תּוֹרָה) comes from a root meaning “to instruct” or “to guide.” It is often translated “law,” but major reference works note that Torah is better understood as instruction, teaching, or guidance — even though “Law” became a standard English rendering.
When YHWH gives Israel the Torah, He is not primarily giving them a legal code to constrain them. He is giving them instruction for life — how to live in covenant relationship with Him, how to be a holy nation, how to order their community in justice and mercy.
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” — Psalm 119:105 (TLV)
The Psalmist delights in the Torah — not as a burden, but as guidance, as light.
The Septuagint translated Torah as nomos (νόμος). In Greek, nomos means “law” in the legal sense — rules, statutes, regulations. When a Greek reader encountered nomos, they heard something closer to a legal code than to fatherly instruction.
What about “fulfilling the law”?
This shift may affect how we hear one of Yeshua’s most important statements. In Matthew 5:17, He says:
“Do not think that I came to abolish the Torah or the Prophets. I did not come to abolish, but to fulfill.” — Matthew 5:17 (TLV)
In Greek, the word for “fulfill” is plēroō (πληρόω) — to fill up, to make full, to complete. If Torah is understood as “law” in the legal sense, then “fulfill” might sound like “satisfy the legal requirements so they can be set aside.” That is how many Western readers have heard it.
But what might Yeshua have actually said? The Peshitta uses the Aramaic word mla (ܡܠܐ) — literally “to fill.” This is the same root as the Hebrew male (מָלֵא). And in rabbinic usage of the time, to “fulfill” (lekayem) Torah meant to properly interpret it and uphold it. To “abolish” (levatel or la’akor) meant to undermine Torah by misinterpreting it.
If this is the background Yeshua was drawing on, then when He says He came to “fill up” the Torah, He might be saying something like: I came to give it its fullest meaning. I came to properly interpret it. I came to embody it completely. I came to show what it was always pointing toward.
If Torah is instruction from a father, then “fulfilling” it would mean living it out in its intended purpose — not checking boxes on a legal code so it can be discarded. Perhaps Yeshua came to be the instruction, to show what the Father’s guidance always meant, to fill it up with its deepest meaning.
We cannot be certain. But if we hear nomos as “law” and plēroō as “complete and set aside,” we may hear something very different than what Yeshua intended. It is worth asking: What if there is more here than we have heard?
This shift has profound implications for how we read Paul. When Paul speaks of the “works of the nomos“ or being “under the nomos,” is he speaking negatively of Torah itself? Or is he speaking of a particular misuse of Torah — using it as a legal system for self-justification rather than receiving it as covenant instruction?
Generations of readers, hearing nomos as “law” in the legal sense, have concluded that the “Old Testament law” is opposed to grace. But what if Torah — rightly understood as instruction — was always meant to be received in grace?
This is a question we will return to. But notice: it begins with translation. The container shapes what we hear.
The Question This Raises
We are not suggesting the Septuagint was a mistake. It brought the Scriptures to a world that could not read Hebrew. It became the Bible of the early ekklesia. The New Testament authors quoted it. YHWH used it.
But we are asking a question: What happens when Hebrew thought is poured into Greek containers?
The translators did their best. But the containers shape what they hold. A Greek reader, steeped in Platonic philosophy, would hear psyche differently than a Hebrew speaker would hear nephesh. A reader trained in Greek rhetoric would hear pistis differently than someone formed by the covenantal faithfulness of Israel.
And as centuries passed — as the faith moved further from its Hebrew roots and deeper into the Greek-speaking world — these shifts compounded. The Greek containers began to reshape the content. Concepts that were concrete became abstract. Concepts that were active became static. Concepts that were relational became legal.
What Was Lost — And What Might Be Recovered
If faith (emunah) is covenantal faithfulness demonstrated in action, what is lost when it becomes mental assent to propositions?
If righteousness (tzedek) is active justice and right relationship, what is lost when it becomes a legal status declared from outside?
If the soul (nephesh) is the whole living person, what is lost when it becomes an immortal ghost trapped in a disposable body?
If eternal life (chayei olam) is the life of the coming age breaking into the present through relationship with the Father and Son, what is lost when it becomes merely “living forever after you die”?
These are not small questions. They touch the heart of what we believe about salvation, about faith, about what it means to follow Yeshua.
And if something was lost in translation — even unintentionally, even by faithful translators doing their best — might it be recovered? Might we learn to read with Hebrew eyes, even when we are reading Greek words? Might we ask, behind every Greek term, what Hebrew concept it was trying to carry?
Questions to Sit With
Did you know that Yeshua’s primary language was Aramaic? That when you read His words in English, you are often reading a translation of a Greek text that is itself a rendering of His Aramaic speech? How might that change how you approach what He said?
Have you ever considered that the New Testament was written in Greek but rooted in Hebrew thought? How might that affect how you read it?
When you hear the word “faith,” do you think of belief in your mind or faithfulness in your actions? Where did your understanding come from?
When you hear “righteousness,” do you think of a legal status God declares over you, or a way of living that makes things right? What would change if it were the other?
When you hear “eternal life,” do you think of duration (living forever) or quality (the life of the age to come, beginning now)? How does John 17:3 shape your understanding?
When you hear that Yeshua came to “fulfill the law,” do you hear “complete it so it can be set aside” — or “fill it up with its fullest meaning”? What if it were the second?
Have you ever asked the Ruach HaKodesh to help you read Scripture through Hebrew eyes — to recover what the original hearers would have understood?
An Invitation
This is Part 2 of a series. We are tracing what happened — not to accuse, but to understand. And in understanding, to ask what might be recovered.
The Scriptures were not written in a vacuum. They were written in Hebrew, by Hebrews, to Hebrews, about the God of Israel and His covenant with His people. When those Scriptures traveled into the Greek world, they carried that heritage with them. But the new containers — the new language, the new philosophical assumptions — began to reshape how they were heard.
We are not asking you to learn Hebrew (though you could). We are inviting you to read with awareness. To ask, when you encounter a familiar word, what did this mean before it was translated? What might I be missing?
The tools are available. The lexicons are free. The questions are open.
And the Spirit who inspired the Scriptures is still speaking.
Next: Part 3 — How Did Greek Thought Shape the Faith?
Sources Referenced:
Mark 5:41 (TLV) — Talitha koum
Mark 7:34 (TLV) — Ephphatha
Mark 14:36 (TLV) — Abba
Mark 15:34 (TLV) — Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani
Matthew 6:22-23 (TLV) — The good eye / bad eye
Matthew 5:17 (TLV) — Fulfill / abolish the Torah
Matthew 16:18 (TLV) — Peter / rock
Matthew 19:24 (TLV) — Camel / needle
Matthew 23:24 (TLV) — Gnat / camel
Dukhrana Peshitta Tool — Aramaic analysis
Jerusalem Perspective — “Destroy” the Law — Rabbinic usage of fulfill/abolish